Vikare
by crutch
Summary: An Inquisitor is assigned to the Criean 1st Regiment on the orders of another, who is covertly attempting to destroy the Universe in the name of their heathen Gods. Standard stuff. There's also a Commissar with a power sword who stabs things and happens to be the protagonist. I'm not saying it's a masterpiece, I just reckon you'll find it amusing.
1. Chapter 1: A Godslayer

**_Author's note: (yes the Author has decided to refer to himself in the third person here, what an Asshole.)_**

 _Hey, welcome to my fic and thanks for clicking here! Seriously. It's much appreciated. If you could take the time out of your day to read and review, that would be awesome, but if you don't that's cool too. I don't currently have a beta and as I already have some chapters written out, if anyone is interested just shoot me a PM and I'll try and find you. I guess. Or something. In the meantime just read. And possibly review._

 _Also, this is the first chapter, it's slow. The rest are better. Pinky swear._

 _Thanks, -Crutch_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1: A Godslayer**_

The Guardsman dived through the hail of warp-fire, away from his platoon, sliding into an icy crevasse hidden from the carnage of the battle surrounding him. He peered through his own breath crystallizing in front of him as he desperately rifled through the contents of his jacket. Laughing on the brink of hysteria he found what he was looking for and hurriedly pulled the blue-backed volume into the open air:

 _"The Imperial Guardsman's Uplifting Primer."_

Pulling off his gloves despite the bitter cold, he quickly skimmed through the contents of the book, his shaky finger pointing him along the Gothic Script as he searched:

 _"Page 41, Daemons of the Warp."_

Jumping suddenly at the sound of crunching behind him as he flicked to his desired page, he turned to see the most unholy creation the warp could spawn, a grotesque armored devil looming over his hole, the crimson light emanating from it shining red off of the freshly fallen snow. The Guardsman stared at the Daemon, it towered over a mortal man, its body seaming hollow, inconsistent even. It felt like all of his Organs had simultaneously dropped to the pit of his stomach- he knew no other way to describe it than pure fear. He looked into its beady yellow eyes and then at its horned, arched body, and then down to the four comparatively cuddly 'Daemons' that were diagrammed on his page. He had a feeling the book wouldn't help much. The Beast advanced into the hole, its cloven feet pressed firmly against the walls of the crevasse, supporting it above the ground.  
"Be- Begone foul Beast!" He stammered, finding deepset courage as he raised his Laspistol and fired. The Daemon laughed, as if tickled, before moving in a blur until it was face to face with its human toy. It smiled, rows upon rows of glistening teeth as the Guardsman's gaze fell to the large, Obsidian Blade which had been plunged into his chest. He tried to speak, but blood came out instead of words as the blade was twisted further into his gut.  
 _ **"I want you to beg for mercy- Human..."** , _It hissed, emphasizing each word with a sharp turn of the Sword. **_"I am your God now!"_**

 _*rustle*_

The Daemon suddenly looked up, irritated that something else was disturbing during its _play time._

The tip of a Power Sword began to peer through the Daemon's chest at the Guardsman, sparks playing along its edge as it was pushed clean through. A man stood behind the beast, his trench coat billowing out behind him in the funneled wind of the hole; quickly becoming coated the Daemonic Ichor shooting from the wound in the Daemon's back. The Daemon stumbled onto the Guardsman as the man released his blade, before its great horned head clicked round to see its unmaker.  
"Nobody kills my men but me.", He growled as he tipped his peaked Commissarial Cap. "Not even a _God._ "

The Guardsman looked up at his savior's heavily scarred face, his painfully thin features twisted into a grimace, obscuring his dead eyes which were slicing into the Daemon. He raised his Bolt Pistol and fired muttering hurried prayers to the God-Emperor as he did- the Daemon exploded into a bubble of gore and screams before being whisked back into the foul realm it emerged from. Sounds of further screaming erupted, ear-piercing shrieks filling the air as the other Daemons were banished also, their sole anchor to this world destroyed. The Guardsman looked at the soot gliding in the air where the creature had been and heaved a bloody sigh of relief. He felt the cold nozzle of the pistol against his forehead and resigned himself to his fate. The Commissar held his finger on the trigger and took a few deep breaths to steady his breathing.  
 _Fuck it.  
_ He turned the gun around and smashed the butt into the Guardman's temple, knocking him unconscious.

o0O0o

A hushed silence fell as the gore-soaked Commissar began to clamber out of the crevasse, his upper body now visible to the rest of the battlefield; blood steaming off of him as it met the bitter air, the unconscious Guardsman still slung over his shoulders. He peered upwards, expecting to see his Comrades looking back at him; but instead saw a woman, more akin to one of the sand sculptures he found back home in Criea than any woman he'd seem before,with artistic curves are dangerously sharp features, all contained by her her carapace armor which clinging tightly to her muscular frame.  
"I'm afraid you'll have to come with me. I promise I'm not a Daemon." She purred.  
"Counter proposition, you say you were mistaken, walk slowly away, and I don't shoot you in the face for heresy." He growled, raising his bolt pistol. Some members of his platoon sniggered, but stopped as the woman's collection of Servo-skulls descended upon them.  
"You seem to think you or your men have a choice!" She giggled.

o0O0o

The Commissar woke up, sat on one side of a grubby plasteel table in a small, white-lit interrogation room. He glanced around, noted the two-way mirror on the far wall and then became aware of the 'Daemon Juice' that had pooled on the polished floor around his coat. The woman on the other side of the table coughed for his attention:  
"So your men say you encountered a Daemon in the field," She stated blandly, all traces of her earlier giggling removed as she leaned forward, revealing the Inquisitorial Rosette plastered to to her chest. "The only explanation I can see, is that you were mistaken-"  
"With all due respect, _sir_ , What I saw was a Daemon, it _smelled_ of Chaos for Throne's sake!" The Commissar growled.  
The Inquisitor tittered, "Darling, we all make mistakes! I'm certain it wasn't a Daemon, but rumor-mongering like that could cause a great deal of panic, and that would certainly need to be dealt with, _wouldn't they_?" She hissed back, winking at him, making no other effort to hide the venom in her voice.

The Commissar nodded blindly, he had long learned when to shut up. He wasn't as enraged at his idolized Imperium's betrayal, just that the Inquisition had to be such a dick about it. He thought he faintly heard a cry of _"Not a Daemon? Uncuff me and say that again!_ _"_ from behind the two-way mirror but the Inquisitor took no notice.

o0O0o

They were quickly sent off-planet due to 'political reasons' (the Planetary Governor was paid a large amout by the Inquisitor.)

What happened that day was kept a closely guarded secret, with the platoon involved being sworn to secrecy. Undetterred by this, the Guardsman who had lived through the ordeal spent his every waking hour in the Medi-wing of their transport regaling anyone who would listen with a blow by blow description explaining how he and "that dark broodin' bloke, Commisser Vickar" had saved all of their lives, much to the increasing annoyance of the regiment's Commanding Officer, Colonel "Ceramite Balls" Jones, who was bedridden next to the Guardsman after apparently having a fist fight with a Power-armored Inquisitor after he explained the Inquisition's view of the 'Daemon Incursion' to him- the members of the regiment swear blind the Colonel also broke a pair of Handcuffs while being detained. Being a closely guarded secret, it was naturally spilled in its entirety when an onlooking Guardsman drank too much Amasec to any members of the Criean 1st who hadn't seen the action first hand.

The Commissar had taken to slinking around the living quarters of the transport, doing his best to avoid his comrades' attention; at first it had been delightful, he had earned his comrades respect, which is no mean feat for a Commissar, but he soon grew weary of his platoon's constant affection- earlier in the week they even baked him a _cake._ Oh how he'd been mocked for that. How was he supposed to build a reputation as an uncompromizing killer if he was seen by the rest of his regiment holding the multi-tiered Victoria Sponge lovingly baked by his platoon, who were meant to be terrified of him, mind. It was a walked briskly down from the living Quarters, through the worn metal corridor towards the 'mess hall', which was essentially a cold, metal, damp-smelling room, which was huge in itself, despite its low ceiling, and could just about contain the entire number of he and his comrades. He kept to the sides of the corridor, dressed in his "off-duty" Commissar's waistcoat, careful to avoid anyone he knew- which, being a small regiment of about 600 men, was everyone.

He entered the expansive hall, relieved to find it almost entirely empty, and set about locating some food. The Commissar spent a few seconds mock dithering about his choice of rations; _decisions, decisions, Grox or Grox? Both with Amesac because its safer than the water._ He then went about deciding on an easily defensible table in the room. He has always come early to do this, and was never sure why. He liked to think it put just enough order into his ever-changing life for him to function successfully. His chosen table wobbled as he put his dish down on it, but he had come prepared- he hastily extracted his well-worn copy of " _The Imperial Guardsmen's uplifting Primer"_ from the pocket of his waistcoat and slid it under the shortest leg of the table; steadying it. His mind was cast back to his days as a recruit in the Schola Progenium as he looked at his name that he'd scrawled on the blue Book's cover back when he thought it was useful:

 _ **"Allessandor Vikare"**_

He suddenly grinned to himself, he'd finally found a use for it! He turned back to his Grox just as the first few Guardsman sauntered into the mess hall.


	2. Chapter 2: Ceramite Bollocks

**_Author's note: (yes the Author has decided to refer to himself in the third person here, and he totally copied and pasted this, what an Asshole.)_**

 _Hey, welcome to my fic and thanks for clicking here! Seriously. It's much appreciated. If you could take the time out of your day to read and review, that would be awesome, but if you don't that's cool too. I don't currently have a beta and as I already have some chapters written out, if anyone is interested just shoot me a PM and I'll try and find you. I guess. Or something. In the meantime just read. And possibly review._

 _This is the second chapter, where some things are introduced and some guys might die (OH DRAMA). The rest are better. Pinky swear._

 _NOTE: Colonel Jones has a Thunder Hammer, which I've decided should be a Lathe-Pattern model as I believe it should be usable by a man (If I'm wrong just correct me)_

 _Also, here's my idea for the Criean 1st Color scheme: (Criea is meant to be a desert world) ~the link died~_ _I'm making the army irl so your opinions on the color scheme are aappreciated :)_

 _Thanks, -Crutch_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 2: The Ceramite Bollocks of the Imperium.**_

Vikare lay naked in bed, nude for his bed covers, attempting to rest after escaping the daily brawl that regularly takes place during meal times. He stared at his ceiling, frowning at the crude welding and visible rivets holding it together. It was a distraction for himself, as in the empty depths of space, there's little for a Guardsman to do with himself in all of the multitudinous hours of silent drifting towards their destination. An Ork once claimed that: _"Travellin' through space is boring. Well, boring unless da hulk yer on is full of dem gene-sneakers, or a base fer da chaos lads wiv da spikes, or already has Boyz on it. Or if humie lootas come callin', that's always good fer a bit a sport. Or unless yer have a mutiny or two to pass da time, or unless strange fings start happenin', which dey usually do when yer out in da warp. One time we had some bloody great ugly fing come straight out of Weird Lugwort's 'ed! It butchered half da lads, that was pretty entertainin'. Come ter fink of it, space is a pretty good larf. And that's before yer find yerself a nice world ta crush!"_ which, Vikare decided,is not that far from the truth. Except that he hated battles and fighting, and would really much rather a job doing anything other than being the Emperor's squishy buffer. Basically space was boring- wait, he'd been agreeing with the Xenos; was that Heresy?

His minor moral dilemma was interrupted by his door smashing open. He drew his Bolt Pistol from beneath his pathetically thin bed covers instinctively, pointing it as his intruder, praying they wouldn't notice it wasn't loaded. The Intruder was a small, round-faced Guardsman, who stared at him frantically, wringing his hands desperately:  
"Commissar! You have to come quick, it's-"  
"Did you knock, Private?" Vikare growled, his Pistol still raised.  
"No, sir, it's the Colonel, he's-"  
"I will shoot you private. Go and knock on my door."  
The Guardsman removed himself, feeling deeply embarrassed to have been commanded by a naked man with a sheet. A moment later, he began to open the door again, pausing to knock first.  
"Sir, please come quickly it's the Colonel, some members of the Inquisition requested boarding and-" He trailed off, staring at the Commissar who had somehow managed to get into full war regalia, his greatcoat flowing behind him from the current of the ventilation shaft beneath him; his pointed features hard etched.  
"Lead the way, Private."

o0O0o

Jones flew bodily into the Air-Lock wall, his topless body landing in a crumpled heap between two supply crates that had been offloaded there. The female Inquisitor and her posse of 'henchmen' stalked towards him, the Servo skulls dancing around her head occasionally swooping down to hurry away of the many obstacles that littered the Air-lock floor. To his left he saw the large hatch leading into the main ship, with a large group of Guardsman peering in on the action through the toughened glass, and to his right there was only the equally large hatch out to the cold abyss. Pushing heavily on the supply crates around him, he heaved himself up and picked up his Thunder Hammer, grasping its short handle.  
"There's no need to fight, Colonel," The Inquisitor sneered. She gestured at her entourage- "We only want to talk."  
Jones lunged, pushing himself athletically from the wall towards the nearest Acolyte, swinging his Hammer two handed mid-air, bringing it down on the Inquisitor-to-be with a tremendous **CRACK**.  
"YOU TRIED TO CHARGE OUR REGIMENT WITH HERESY FOR DOING YOUR JOB FOR YOU!" He bellowed, sweat sliding off of his bare torso. The encaptured audience of Guardsmen, oohh'd as shock waves pulsed from where the Hammer had struck, forcing the occupants of the room to the floor.  
"THAT WAS BEFORE" She shrieked back, still being beaten to the floor by the overwhelming energy of the Thunder Hammer.

o0O0o

Vikare hurried down the metal-plated corridors to the Air-Lock, following the wiry Guardsman in front of him. He rounded a corner and overtook the Guardsman, breaking into a run as he saw a large crowd gathered around the Air-lock access hatch. He tried to sift his way through the crowd, but none of them heard any of his requests for them to move over the sound of some idiot tossing around what sounded like a grenade on the other side of the hatch.  
The Commissar unsheathed his Power Sword, thumbing the activation rune, waving it at the crowd until they made a path for him to walk through.  
Vikare looked through the now-cracked window into the Airlock, seeing Jones, his all the muscles clad to his near Seven foot tall form bristling as he sized up the power-armored Inquisitor, surrounded by the bludgeoned remains of the Inquisitor's retinue. Vikare hastily pummeled the hatch-open button to his right but could only watch in horror as the Inquisitor summoned up her Psychic might with a whisper: _"Hammerhand-"_ and punched the Colonel; knocking him out cold in a single hit.

o0O0o

Command fell temporarily to Major Goto, who in the Commissar's opinion was a spineless Oaf who knew nothing about how this Universe functioned and his duties as a Guardsman, instead only working to further himself. He did not disappoint, as he eagerly accepted the Inquisitor's (now slightly more reasonable) plans in exchange for a pat on the back from the Inquisition. The Inquisitor practically skipped to the Medi wing, escorted by her Halo of Servo-skulls, where she carefully positioned the written conformation of his regiment's compliance next to his unconscious form, before hurriedly skipping away in case the big man woke up. The Inquisitor left at some point after that, a predatory smile stretching across her face as she did.

* * *

 _DEAREST JONES,_

 _Due to the fact that you and your troops LIED about seeing Daemons, and then openly attacked Inquisitorial Members in an unprovoked display of Hostility, I have decided to assign my fellow Inquisitor and Associate, Inquisitor Gladeus Hawke in order to supervise you. Enjoy!_

 _Love, Inquisitor Celica_  
 _xoxoxo_

 _(You'll find the Official report signed on your table, so don't try and use this against_ _me.)_

* * *

o0O0o

Whispers quickly began to circulate through the regiment, despite, according to the terrified Medicae, Colonel Jones apparently breaking the plasteel holds on his convalescence bed to go 'for a walk', taking the Official Report documents with him, a trip from which they never returned (though some recruits say they him dragging bloodied Nine-foot warp squid through the Air lock) , within the day the entire regiment was awaiting the arrival of this near-mythical Inquisitor:  
"They say he once killed the 'Nid hive mind!"  
"I heard he can always tell if yer lying- He's got telekenisis."  
"'Parrently he slain a Void Whale. Wun't surprise me, they say his Psychic might is Incredible."  
"'E is a tactical genius!"  
"He's got a pink Baneblade- me Mam told me..." a fresh-faced Guardsman piped up, only to be scoffed at by the more experienced rumor-spreaders.  
Vikare tried to remain neutral on the matter, content with watching the other Guardsmen in their dusty-yellow uniforms shout at it with each other during the wait for Hawke's arrival. And seeing Goto run out of the room whenever Jones stomped in, who'd been possessed with an even shorter temper recently. That _was_ fun.

o0O0o

The Commissar sat on a stool next to one of the few porthole-like windows in the Mess hall, his back leaned against the wall behind him. He looked out into the blackness, letting the noises of dinner wash over him. Something caught his eye in the distance. _It couldn't be... Was that pink? ...Oh throne almighty...  
_ The Inquisition are the Imperium's secret police, possibly the most influential body in the galaxy, able to order the deaths of a million people in a heartbeat; subject a world to the worst fates imaginable in the name of the 'greater good'- and this usually leads them to develop a nice healthy god complex. One thing is for certain, no matter how much you believe yourself to be the epicenter of the visible universe, _flying_ around in a Baneblade through the empty reaches of face is simply beyond the pale.  
Vikare adopted a stunned silence in his corner of the mess hall, the rest of the regiment following suit as the Pink-washed ceramite hull of the super heavy battle tank drifted lazily into view through the ships portholes.  
"Is that...?"  
"Why is it pink?"  
o0O0o

The Baneblade hummed gently through the gaseous sphere which it generated around itself purely so people could hear it, it's delicately welded solar sails fluttering just above the bubble of artificial wind.  
The occupants of the mess hall gaped at it, all previous quarrels and food forgotten at the sight of the pink monstrosity sauntering towards the Air-lock. The intercom crackled to life, the sour voice of Private Wilhelm (Ol' Wullie) greeted the guardsmen who had now turned to stare at the four speakers lodged in each corner of the hall:  
 _"So, it appears that this jackass Inquisitor has arrived. Prepare to be purged, Gentlemen."_


	3. Chapter 3: Flight of the Baneblade

Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Flight of the Baneblade

* * *

Author's note: (yes the Author has decided to refer to himself in the third person here, and he always totally copies and pastes this, what an Asshole.)

Hey, welcome to my fic and thanks for clicking here! Seriously. It's much appreciated. If you could take the time out of your day to read and review, that would be awesome, but if you don't that's cool too. I don't currently have a beta and as I already have some chapters written out, if anyone is interested just shoot me a PM and I'll try and find you. I guess. Or something. In the meantime just read. And possibly review.

This is the Third chapter; as of of those who can count have realized, and as always some things are introduced and some guys might die (OH DRAMA).This one is really short, because I am ill. sympathy plz. A future chapter may or not be better. Pinky swear.

Thanks, -Crutch

* * *

Chapter 3: Flight of the Baneblade

The Criean 1st took their places outside the Air-Lock once again to greet the fabled war-hero that was about to join them. (albeit for dubious reasons) Colonel Jones had refused to speak to anyone vaguely related to any kind of Inquisition and had disappeared somewhere, although Private Karkoff claimed he'd seen the Giant lugging a disassembled sniper rifle into the ventilation chutes. This left Major Goto in charge and left to greet the new arrival. Vikare didn't move from his seat, a flushed Colonel burst out of the store room on the edge of his view, strolling purposefully with a supposedly irreparable Lascannon in tow.  
The Commissar heaved himself up from the stool; and a surprisingly comfortable one at that, which he'd been using to watch the commotion this unexpected arrival created, without ever leaving the mess hall. That was the idea at least. Bemoaning the supposedly well-drilled and disciplined regiment's similarities to an excited puppy waiting for its owner, he set off down the Adamantium corridors towards the Air-lock before Major Goto got his head stuck too far up the new Inquisitor's behind.

o0O0o

Vikare reluctantly rounded the last corner towards the Air-Lock, praying to Terra itself that his group of incredibly manly six foot soldiers weren't fawning in front of the obnoxiously painted Baneblade standing out against the grubby transports and storage canisters in the Air-lock or its presumably equally obnoxious owner.  
No luck.  
Flanked by his finest bikini-clad assistants, Lord Inquisitor Gladeus Hawke stood halfway down the Pink Baneblade's carved ebony staircase, which the access hatch had been extensively modified to accommodate, resplendent is his own Glory; his ornate carapace armor adorned with ornate details and seals of purity and salvation.  
"Suuup."  
"Sir!" Major Goto hastily saluted hastily, before being swatted aside by the rest of his regiment.  
Vikare stalked towards the man, slamming his Commisar's cap on his head in a feeble attempt to look presentable, his grubby uniform and overcoat offering stark contrast to the clean cut man looking down upon him. The Inquisitor outstretched his arms, and at once his assistants scuffled eagerly into the Baneblade, emerging a second later with a detailed great coat and Tricorne, both made of black leather with a shimmering gold inlay having been laced around the seams; both items of clothing were carefully fitted onto Gladeus' imposing frame.  
"Thank you, Ladies," He smiled to the giggling women before turning back to the Commissar. "I'm afraid you just got one-upped."  
The Inquisitor hurried down the staircase, brushing past Vikare who gave him his most fierce 'I'm-a-Commissar-with-the-authority-to-shoot-anyone-I-dam-well-please' look as he passed, and then continued past the other awed Guardsmen in the down the Adamantium corridor leading to the mess hall.

"Well, this is nice," came the Inquisitor's voice from down the Corridor. "When's Lunch?"

o0O0o

"What do you mean, all Vox Communications are down?" Colonel Jones bellowed at the Vox-operator; Voxy. He had a name, but it had long since lost out to Voxy. Voxy wiped the Colonel's saliva off of his face before attempting to stammer a reply. The Colonel had emerged from somewhere about a day after Gladeus Hawke first 'graced' the Regiment with his presence, with a still broken Lascannon and an even worse temper.  
"It's true Sir, something is interfering with the signal- my scanners can't pick it up, it must be something of xenos origin-" He started.  
Jones sprinted away, yelling variations of: "DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF?" to all of whom he passed.  
So for around five Terran days, the Criean 1st were isolated from the rest of mankind. Colonel Jones had once hadn't been seen since he stormed off, and in the absence of anything else to do, the Criean 1st were treated to tales of Lord Inqusitor Gladeus Hawke's finest exploits, cementing him further as the Imperium's savior in the eyes of the Guardsmen.  
On the sixth day, Jones returned. He stood in the entrance to the mess hall, bowing slightly to fit in the regular-sized doorway. He began to walk, before breaking into a furious charge. His powerful legs pounded on the ground rhythmically as he sprinted towards the Inquisitor.

"DISABLE YOUR XENOS SHIELD AT ONCE!", The Colonel barked, pointing to a sleek, black contraption fitted to the Inquisitor's belt. "I have no qualms with you utilizing the weapons of the enemy against them, on the battlefield, but I do in a vessel where it disrupts all communication to the outside universe!"

o0O0o

Gladeus Hawke looked at at the giant, his wild eyes staring directly at the fusion of clone field and disruptor field he'd borrowed from an Archon. Shit, that was stupid.  
"Aha, you passed my test, as an Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos I feel the need to make sure my allies are adequately prepared to to face the enemies of the Imperium." The Inquisitor walked towards to Colonel, doing his best to look nonchalant. He patted the man on the back before briskly padding away, his near-nude entourage running after him.

Hawke finally reached the quarters he'd been assigned, he got lost a few times on the way there. Sighing with relief, he locked the door behind him and set about writing his daily exploits in his soon to be published Autobiography: GLADEUS HAWKE: Protecter of Humanity. It was stress relief, if he was honest.  
I like to think of myself as a modest man, so it was awful for the men of the Criean 1st to praise me as they did. All I did was fix their Vox-caster while fending off a hull breach from a splinter fleet of Hive fleet Eunimedes, a meagre task for one as talented as myself, especially considering my considerably considerable Psychic might, which Scholars have likened to that of great Psykers such as Mephiston (for more Information on Mephiston, see my other published Literary works; notably: GLADEUS HAWKE: Guardian Angel of the Blood Angels). The Imperial Guard get a bad rep, but they're actually really nice guys- hell one of them baked me a cake! I felt I didn't deserve that, and so gave it to the starving Orphans on the Galaxy.

He spell-checked his work briefly, before thrusting it to the member of his entourage with the largest breasts- she was his favorite-  
"Elaborate this please." He muttered, handing his latest piece of writing to her, then said goodnight to his trusty Venom Talon, a master-crafted dagger which was slowly burning a hole in his side table, before finally collapsing into the sumptious bed he'd brought with him for his travels.

o0O0o

The occupants of the ship were woken abruptly in the wee hours of the morning by a sadly familiar crackling pulsing through the ship from the intercom:

*Crackle* "Morning Ladies, it appears we have an assignment-"

"Wullie shut it you old fool, you'll give yourself a heart attack!"

"Frak off Jonesie, I'll break yer neck! Lads get up unless yer wan' to be eaten by 'Nids."

"JONESIE? I should've left you under that Hive Tyrant back on Gluna you bastard!"  
Laughter soon swept through the cold metal corridors the speakers. It was a unique way to be woken up every morning, to say the least.

Vikare leapt from his bed into a boxer-clad combat stance, sweat glistening on his brow. He glanced from side to side before thanking the Throne he was alone in his room.


End file.
